


Token of Affection

by ryssabeth



Series: Metropolitan Art [9]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - College/University, Homeless Character, M/M, Modern AU, University
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-09
Updated: 2013-04-09
Packaged: 2017-12-08 00:54:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/755087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ryssabeth/pseuds/ryssabeth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's a surprise, but not an unwelcome one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Token of Affection

_The sea of Paris will move_ , Enjolras thinks. This time, anyway. Though it’s true that turn-out had been excellent at their first movement, combating the legislation that’s still up for debate (the debates for it come on television in the middle of the day, when classes are going on, so no one has the time to watch them), this next one—set for this coming Monday, midday. (Classes might get in the way of debates—but, he supposes, it’s their turn to get in the way of them.)

“I think,” Enjolras says, catching the gentle shoves Feuilly and Bahorel give one another, grinning in excitement, “this one will be even bigger than the last one. I’ve been going to shelters around the city—I’m hoping we have more of the people with us, then.”

Grantaire’s eyes shutter over for a moment—just one—and the pencil that’s dragged across the page of his sketchpad stops. It’s almost like a hitch on a record, because in that breath of space he’s moving again, as if nothing had caught his attention.

(And Enjolras is curious.)

But he presses on, “and if you could tell your classes, that’d be great. Getting students out there would be good too, I think. Just make sure you don’t inconvenience any exams, like _last_ year. I don’t think we can handle another disciplinary action like that.”

At this, Grantaire snickers, his pencil sweeping an arc on his page, his thumb following along to smear it the graphite against the page. “What happened?” He asks, glancing up from his handiwork with a flash of blue eyes and a smile.

“We advertised one of our on-campus meetings in our classes,” Combeferre explains, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, pushing his glasses up on his forehead. “And students had skipped exams to attend—and used our event as an excuse. We got cited.”

“And we had to appear before the student government,” Bousset laughs, as if it hadn’t been a problem for all of them. (It had been, but it still makes Enjolras smile to think about. All the _trouble_ they’d caused.) “Joly fainted—thought he was going to be expelled.”

“We almost _were_ ,” Combeferre murmurs, irritably placing his chin in his hands. “Got away by the skin of our teeth.”

That makes Grantaire laugh aloud.

And with that, Enjolras figures that this meeting should end on a high note, and so he dismisses everyone. (Bahroel and Feuilly are going to get drinks—Grantaire is invited, but declines—while Joly and Bousset are heading out this evening to meet with a lady friend they seem to have in common, Musichetta. Eponine has to work and Grantaire has promised that he’ll watch Gavroche.)

Though everyone is dismissed, Grantaire waits at the door—as he has the past three meetings, backpack slung carelessly over his shoulder, his jacket tied around his waist for the coming spring. (He still keeps that ridiculous cap upon his head, despite the warming weather.) “I assume we’re walking to Eponine’s?”

“Your assumption is correct,” Grantaire confirms, his footsteps synching with Enjolras’ as they descend the stairs. “Is it one of your first ones?” He teases, a crooked smile touching his lips as he ducks the swat Enjolras aims at his head.

“Ha _ha_ , oh, do you perform at parties, because _that_ one was hilarious.”

“Ouch,” Grantaire holds a hand above his heart, tendons straining against a thin wrist (stained with graphite and charcoal). “Your sarcasm wounds me, you know. My self-esteem is so delicate these days, I don’t know how I put up with you.”

“One of the wonders,” Enjolras drawls. “I’m certain.”

Grantaire laughs, bringing up both of his hands to laugh, the afternoon bearing down on them with just enough warmth to keep the world satisfied that yes, seasons do, in fact, change.

They pass conversations back and forth ( _“so what exactly is it that you’ve learned in your most recent mythology class—“_ or _“oh yes please enlighten me on what I’m missing whilst not taking a philosophy class”_ or _“have you been to any new museums recently”_ to which comes the reply _“there are very few new museums, basket-case_ ”) wandering between streetlights and pedestrians.

Grantaire has a fascination with balancing on the curb, standing as close to the street as he can (which makes Enjolras question his self-preservation, to which Grantaire replies _the world, apparently, preserves my life for me—observe—_ and he’ll walk into traffic for half a moment. Enjolras has stopped asking).

Eponine’s flat is in a complex, painted a bright blue, and that’s how she’d introduced the place the first time ( _“you can’t miss it, it’s this bright blue thing—“_ ), giving directions for an after-club meet up. She lives on the second floor (and Grantaire takes the stairs, three in one leap, his jacket swooping behind him like a cape as he says _put those long legs to work, Gabriel, one-two._ )

“Biblical references?” Enjolras asks, following behind at a more sedate one-stair-at-a-time. (And he remembers the first time they spoke— _“I think I’ve seen you on the ceiling of a church before.”_ ) “Classics _and_ Religion. You never cease to amaze me with your repertoire.”

Grantaire’s eyes shutter over for the second time today as he turns away, running his fingers along Eponine’s doorframe, coming away in a moment’s time with a key, held triumphantly.

“This is a secret,” he says, his eyes open windows once more. “So—try not to tell anyone. This spare key is a privilege, not a right.”

(Enjolras snorts as he rolls the key between his fingers.)

They stand there—still bickering, with no bite, merely to keep some shroud of conversation around them. When the topics putter out—rather quickly—Grantaire slips the key into the lock. But he doesn’t turn the doorknob. He waits.

(Enjolras waits too—but he is unsure, exactly, what he’s waiting for.)

And then—he sighs, “Grantaire, do you have—a phone number. Or something.”

Something in his face loosens, something that could be, perhaps, construed as sad. But he tugs his cap over his ears and shakes his head. “I’m actually—“ he smiles, revealing his slightly quirked teeth, “I’m hopeless with technology. Ask Eponine—or Gavroche. They had to talk me through using that _DVD_ machine.” He ducks his head (and Enjolras cannot tell if he’s kidding or if he just doesn’t want to hand out his number— _either would be fine_ , he tells the pang in his chest. _Either would be fine_ ). “But, uh, if you need to reach me, Eponine knows where I am most of the time.”

 _I see_ , he wants to say. But the words get caught somewhere, because Grantaire is regarding him with the look he sometimes gets (with the look he’d giving at the first protest he’d attended—something akin to wonder, but unidentifiable).

Grantaire pulls the knit cap from his head, shaking out his curls so they fluff out, framing his face, and he steps forward, leaving the key in its place on the door.

And he pulls the cap over Enjolras’ hair, their faces coming close together, for a split second (and Enjolras thinks that perhaps Grantaire’s lips brush the tip of his nose, but he honestly can’t tell if that’s his imagination or not). “You can have this though. It’s not a phone number but—“ he steps away and Enjolras places his hand on his own head, holding the cap in place. “More like a token.”

“An acceptable compromise,” Enjolras breathes to Grantaire’s smile and waits on Eponine’s rudimentary porch until Grantaire disappears with a shout of _Gavroche, I’m here to liberate you from the clutches of boredom!_

Enjolras takes the stairs back down—one at a time—and pulls the cap over his hair.

Even though it’s warm, outside.

-

(The next morning, Enjolras leaves his flat with a thermos of coffee. It’s too warm for a coat, today.

But he there is a knit cap on his head, pressing his curls against his ears.)


End file.
